


Quantum Meruit

by westwoodandridingcrops



Series: Get Your Fill (Tumblr Prompt Fills) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Canon Compliant, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mormorlock, OT3, Other, Threesome, season three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:39:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4502850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwoodandridingcrops/pseuds/westwoodandridingcrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quantum Meruit: Latin phrase meaning "what one has earned." In the context of contract law, it means something along the lines of "a reasonable price for what has been tendered or services provided."</p><p>Sherlock Holmes makes a deal with Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran. The price is steep, and worth paying again, if only Jim will hold up his end of the bargain...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quantum Meruit

**Author's Note:**

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“It appears we’ll be having company for tea.”

 

Sebastian’s voice had jarred the silence as Jim worked in his study. “He’s coming all the way from Baker Street just to see you.” With that, he’d disappeared, and moments later, still somewhat shocked, Jim had heard the faint rumblings from the kitchen of tea being prepared.

 

Sebastian had let him in, each man sizing the other up. They’d seated themselves and gone about tea time in relative silence. Now, here they were, munching biscuits and sipping Earl Grey in Jim and Sebastian’s flat at Conduit Street. Sherlock hadn’t spoken, instead leaning forward in his seat like some sort of rapacious bird.

 

 “You need something from us,” Sebastian said to break the silence.

 

“Of course he does, don’t be obvious. Everyone else in the world thinks we’re dead, and yet, here he is,” Jim sighed.

 

Sherlock’s smile was wry. “Is this how you two do it as well? Sit across from your potential clients and make the decision?”

 

“Oh, Sherlock. I’d say the decision’s been made for a while now. Stop playing coy and tell daddy what it is you need,” Jim replied. Jim had missed this, this sparring. It was one of the regrettable sacrifices of going underground for nearly three years.

 

“I need two things.” Sherlock sat his tea down, and leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. Jim watched Seb from the corner of his eye. He was mildly interested in the response his favorite sniper would have to Sherlock, now that he was seeing him up close. Seb’s head tilted just slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, his eyes locked on the long line of Sherlock’s thigh. Interesting.

           

“Go on, then,” Jim prompted.

 

“I need everything you know about Mary Morstan--”

           

Sebastian cut him off with a snort. “How much time do you have?”

 

“I suspect the file she gave John about her past to be incomplete,” Sherlock explained.

 

“Still looking after him, then.” Sebastian pointed out somewhat snidely.

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “It really would do your underlings a great service not to believe everything the The Sun discerns as publishable,” Sherlock directed at Jim. “I’m only concerned for his safety.”

 

“Well, do you have reason to doubt her?” Sebastian asked.

 

“Consider it a more thorough investigation, Mr….”

 

“You know as well as I do what my name is, Holmes. Let’s not,” Sebastian rejoined coolly.  

 

Whatever it was Sherlock had expected in response it wasn’t that. It really shouldn’t have surprised him, though. Seb had been in Jim’s life, in his home, sometimes in his bed, for years. Jim wasn’t ever interested in _ordinary_.

 

“Go on,” Jim prodded.

 

“I need a crime committed.”

 

Jim and Sebastian glanced at one another.

 

“Oh?” Jim asked, eyebrow raised.

 

“Charles Augustus Magnussen,” Sherlock answered.

 

Everyone in the free world knew Magnussen. Brash, unapologetic newspaper magnate. Those in Jim’s circles, however, knew even more. Magnussen was nearly untouchable. Nearly. Almost. Nothing was impossible for Jim Moriarty.

 

“You want him dead,” Jim supplied.

 

“He knows things about Mary that could be... disastrous if they got out.”

 

“I know things about ‘Mary’ that could be disastrous if they got out,” Sebastian quipped.

 

“Things that I’m sure you realize are more valuable if they are told to me and dealt with by my brother and myself as we see fit. After meeting with the man, I have yet to figure out a good way to approach the problem of his elimination.”

 

“You met with him?” Jim asked incredulously. “You should have come to me first.”

 

“Well, yes, of course I met with him. I may have… struck a bargain with him.”  


“Involving?” Jim asked, his patience running short.

 

“The exchange of my brother for all of his files and information about Mary.”

 

Jim tsked and shook his head. “Well, first off, if someone murdered Seb, here...”

 

Seb snorted, “Glad to be of service.”

 

“... I wouldn’t go to Lestrade. I’d come to you. I’m rather upset our professional courtesy doesn’t run both ways.”

 

Sherlock smirked. “I’m hardly ever courteous.”

 

Jim smiled. “I do have to admit, it is a clever plan.”

 

Sherlock preened, his face twisting into its smuggest configuration. “Of course it is.”

 

“Oh, not you.” Jim said, diverging onto his own train of thought.  “You were an idiot. Magnussen played you like a fiddle. Clever man, that one.”

 

Sherlock’s face fell, and he snarled into his teacup.

 

“You realize what you’re asking for is nearly impossible,” Jim continued.

 

“Well, if you don’t think you’re up for the job….”

 

“Oh no, Sherlock, you misunderstand. I accept. Now we must go through the tacky business of haggling over a price.”

 

“I can assure you money is no issue--”

 

“Well of course it’s not, _sweetheart_. See,” Jim leaned forward now himself, “I don’t want your, or more accurately, your brother’s money.”

 

“Well, what is it that you want?”

 

“You, naturally.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes, Sherlock. I want to take you to my bedroom, and with the help of my, admittedly lovely, assistant, I want to take you apart.”

 

Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably, his legs uncrossing, but Jim wasn’t fooled.

 

“You’re hard just thinking about it,” he observed, glancing down pointedly at Sherlock’s rapidly tenting trousers. “And you really should be. Sebastian is quite talented.”

 

Sebastian was grinning like a big cat, flashing rows of white teeth.  

 

“This is coercion,” Sherlock muttered lamely, clearly not even believing it himself.

 

“Then, I’ll make you a deal, Sherlock. I’ll do this for you for 10,000 pounds. That’s a song compared to what I normally charge. It’s a price you can hardly refuse. 10,000 pounds and Seb and I will do it for you. But, alternatively, you can follow the two of us to my bedroom and find out why it is your first response is to say yes.”

 

“You could kill me,” Sherlock retorted.

 

“I could always kill you. Balance of probability says I won’t this particular day.”

 

“Why do you even want me in the first place?”

 

Sebastian chuckled. “I’d say that’s _fairly_ obvious. It might have something to do with the legs though, and the lips, and the arse, and all the lovely skin,” he supplied.

 

Jim glared at him for a moment before turning back to Sherlock.

 

“My reasons are my reasons, and, frankly, aren’t for you to know,” Jim snipped.

 

“But…” Sherlock’s eyes didn’t move from Sebastian, shocked at the brazen outburst.         

 

Jim shook his head. “Sherlock, are you sincerely telling me that _that,_ ” he gestured in Seb’s general direction, “holds no appeal whatsoever? Granted he’s a coarse arse--”

 

“Hey…” Seb interjected.

 

“... But, he’s gorgeous. I think you can just manage to shag him. Now, please stop saying all the things you’re expected to say, and make up your mind one way or the other,” Jim finished.

 

All was quiet for a moment as Sherlock considered. Jim busied himself with drinking the last dregs of his tea before it went cold, and Sebastian stole a biscuit from his plate and was now currently munching on it. Every second spent considering only tipped the scales in favor of what Jim actually wanted, and so he was patient. For once.

 

Eventually, Sherlock nodded  _yes._

 

Jim smiled broadly. “Excellent. Seb, be a doll. Go and fetch a blindfold, won’t you?”

 

____________________________________________

 

Jim took the scrap of black silk from Sebastian’s hands, and moved to slip it over Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock leaned back from where Jim was now standing in front of him.

 

“Why should I?” Sherlock asked. He looked at Jim warily, light eyes glancing at the cloth suspiciously.

 

Jim sighed. “Because Sherlock, your whole life people have been misinterpreting you. Tell me, how many times has someone come on to you only to pull back, expecting you to chase them, you to seduce them.”

 

Sherlock remained quiet but quirked his head to the side as Jim continued.

 

“The only reason you want sex is for the same reason you want cocaine. For a few blissful moments your brain can finally be at peace. That’s rather difficult to do if you’re the one expected to call all the shots.”

 

Jim reached forward to tilt Sherlock’s chin sharply up as far as it would go comfortably. “Lucky for you, I don’t mind orchestrating.”

 

With no further protest the blindfold found its place snugly tied around Sherlock’s head.  

 

He stepped back from Sherlock. “Seb, if you could show our guest to the bedroom. Make him comfortable, if you don’t mind.”

 

Seb smirked knowingly, “Not at all.”

 

Once Seb had taken Sherlock by the hand and had led him back down the hallway to the bedroom, Jim paused and gave himself a moment to think through the encounter before strolling back himself. He came into the familiar space to find Sherlock’s back to him.

 

“--if the vowels hadn’t been enough of a giveaway, calling me by my last name certainly was.”

“That’s not terribly brilliant, Sherlock. My last name is Moran. Who the fuck else could I be?” Seb asked, voice muffled in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

 

“He sounds that way because he’s having to talk around that silver spoon. It’s legitimate, the spoon and the accent, unlikely the slightly posher one you and your brother affect. Continue.” Jim added from the doorway.  

 

Seb had stripped Sherlock of his coat and suit jacket, and was making short work of the buttons of his dress shirt all while lavishing attention to Sherlock’s long neck, whatever retort Sherlock could have been thinking, dying on his lips at Seb’s assault. Seb looked up for a moment over Sherlock’s shoulder and locked eyes with Jim’s, flashing him a predatory smile.

 

“Like what you see, boss?”

 

“Always.”

 

Jim watched the scene, trying and failing to determine which of them looked better in the moment, Sherlock with his head thrown back, the barest of groans slipping from his mouth or Seb intent on nothing but devouring Sherlock whole. Luckily on this, best of days, Jim didn’t have to choose.  

 

He made himself comfortable in the chair positioned in the corner of the room. Jim had never realized just what a marvelous view if the bed it had. He settled himself in, and watched as Sebastian slipped the expensive cotton of Sherlock’s shirt from his shoulders. His mouth traveled now to the front, sucking at Sherlock’s clavicles, and Sherlock knotted a long fingered hand into Seb’s short blond hair.

 

 “Oh, the virgin’s not so virginal after all,” Seb joked.

“Of course not,” Sherlock spat back. “A ridiculous assumption to make in the first place.”

 

“Not that ridiculous if it bothers you so,” Jim responded. “Anyway you’ve certainly never had anything like _this_.” Sherlock groaned as Seb made some sort of particularly clever contact with his suprasternal notch.  

 

“I did try to tell you he was rather good at all of this,” Jim teased. Seb’s hand had quickly drifted over Sherlock’s abdomen and was now palming at Sherlock’s clothed cock. Jim had felt that hand deftly pawing at himself before and knew just how delicious it felt to grind himself into it harder as Sherlock was doing now.

 

“That was a bit of understatement,” Sherlock begrudged, deep voice gone slightly breathy under Seb’s ministrations.

 

“Oh, he does have some semblance of manners. Whatever brand it is they teach to upstart little middle-class boys,” Seb said.

 

Seb started walking Sherlock back slowly, and once the back of Sherlock’s knees hit the edge of the bed, pressed him down into it before crowding the space over him. Seb’s position covering Sherlock blocked most of his form from Jim’s view. However, the canting of Sherlock’s hips, the hand that had again found its way back to Seb’s hair as Sherlock pulled him up so their mouths could meet, was more than enough to tell Jim what he needed to know.

 

“Gorgeous. You two have no idea,” Jim praised.

 

“I have some idea,” Sebastian shot back. He sat back on his haunches to pull of his own shirt before running hands down Sherlock’s chest. “His skin’s fucking beautiful. I wonder what it would be like to watch it turn red under a flogger,” Sherlock’s answering moan seemed to voice his opinion on the matter.

 

“Another time, perhaps,” Jim pondered. Somewhere in this process, Jim’s hand had found itself tracing the line of his own hard cock, eyes never leaving the feast in front of him.

 

Seb had returned to attack Sherlock’s throat, his tanned, scarred skin jarring against Sherlock’s creamy perfection. His mouth continued tracing the hills and valleys of Sherlock’s front, tongue swirling first at one nipple and then the other. Sherlock hissed as Seb nipped at one of the tender buds, his back arching slightly, nails now biting into Seb’s shoulders. Seb continued his assault unfazed, travelling down and down before pausing and pulling back slightly when he reached a spot just below Sherlock’s ribs. “Mary’s handiwork, then.”

 

Sherlock grunted, perhaps from missing the contact contact. “Surgery,” Sherlock explained.

 

Seb shook his head. “Sloppy, and unnecessarily reckless if she wasn’t trying to kill you,” he admonished snobbily.

 

“Now, now, tiger. You can prove your prowess in that particular arena some other time. Task at hand,” Jim reminded.

 

Seb shrugged and continued, nails raking down Sherlock’s sides as his mouth continued its trek downward. Sherlock’s mouth popped open in an ‘O’ and his head moved to the side when Seb started mouthing his sharp hipbones. Again, they broke apart so that Seb could strip him of belt, pants, trousers, and even pull off Sherlock’s long forgotten shoes and socks. Jim watched like a man starved as Seb laid him bare, each piece of him finely made and pale. Still, Jim held back, more drawn to watching the two of them for the moment.

 

“He was wasted on whatever junkie he decided to fumble with,” Seb said, admiring his handiwork at last. “It’s like giving an Aston Martin to a spotty sixth-former and telling him to have at.”

“You’re right. He was,” Jim agreed, admiring the long, lean lines of Sherlock’s body. As easily the most sexual of the lot of them, this particular sin would be egregious to Seb. Seb no longer teased, but instead took Sherlock’s cock, now fully erect, into his mouth and sucked firmly. Sherlock’s back arched again fully as Seb bobbed his head deftly.

 

“The tongue really is the best part, in my opinion,” Jim observed.

 

Seb’s back muscles rippled as he focused on sucking Sherlock off, and Jim’s cock was demanding more attention than just some gentle touching at his own hand. Sherlock alternated between looking down, trying to watch Seb even as the blindfold obstructed him and throwing his head back against the pillows and moaning.

 

“The bars,” Jim said simply.

           

Seb’s head continued to bob for a moment, apparently loath to leave. But eventually, he pulled off and Sherlock slumped back into the pillows.

 

Jim stood as Seb went to retrieve the two spreader bars in the closet. While he was searching, Jim shucked off his clothing, each piece folded into a tidy pile on the seat behind him. Finally Sebastian returned, bars in hand. Jim approached the bed, unable to resist crowding into Sherlock’s space. Sherlock seemed to sense the change in partners, and Jim’s teeth found their way to the juncture of his jaw and neck before nipping at his ear lobe.

 

“Now comes the fun part, sweetheart,” he crooned, voice rougher than it had been before.

 

“Things seemed relatively pleasing before,” Sherlock objected weakly.

 

Jim snickered, “Just wait.” He nodded over at Seb, who was at the foot of the bed. Carefully, Seb took one ankle and then the other and led them into the padded cuffs at the ends of the first bar. Seb adjusted them so they’d be roughly hip-width apart, not enough to be uncomfortable, but just enough to make movement ungainly.

 

Jim stroked Sherlock’s chest lightly before continuing his instruction, “Wrists next, please.”

 

Sherlock complied, holding his wrists out, and Jim got out of the way as Seb locked the same type of cuffs around either wrist, setting them shoulder-width apart on the adjustable bar.

 

“Good, darling,” Jim praised, a hand raking through Sherlock’s curls. “Up on all fours now.”

 

Sherlock shifted around and with some minimal work was in the desired position, blindfold still firmly in place.

 

What they found there was not broad expanses of smooth, white skin, but rather a latticework of scars. Jim had seen enough people tortured, had done enough of it himself to know what it was he was looking at. The scars weren’t old like Seb’s, but relatively new, the skin over them still a mottled pink, still slightly raised and puckered.

 

“Who did this to you?” Jim asked, touching a fingertip to the broad stripes of thin skin.

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t you know? You did. In the former Soviet bloc. Charming place, Serbia.”

 

Jim and Seb’s eyes met for a moment, Jim shocked. He shouldn’t have been. Once upon a time, he might have ordered it done himself, Sherlock more a thorn in his side than anything else.

 

But then, he’d met him, and he’d been brilliant, and Jim had been absolutely enthralled.

 

The scars laced over one another, and perhaps for the first time, Jim felt something that tasted bitter and acrid like guilt. It was hardly over having wronged Sherlock, they were both the same sort of person, after all. There would simply be nothing there for either of them if they were not equals, both with capacity for mutually assured destruction. But after seeing him vulnerable this way and perhaps seeing a glimpse of what might have been had they not been at odds with one another, the idea of marring something as (almost) unrivaled as Sherlock suddenly irked him in a way that few things did.

 

Jim handed Seb the lube from the bedside drawer, and then resumed his position at Sherlock’s side. “Regardless. You’re quite pretty like this, you know.” His hand snaked under Sherlock to tease at his cock, hand too loose for him to get any real satisfaction. Still, Sherlock canted his hips into the sensation.

 

Then, abruptly, Sherlock moaned obscenely. Jim looked at Seb and found the man’s attention rapt at what could only be the sight of his own fingers penetrating Sherlock’s arse. He could feel the gentle swaying of Sherlock’s body as Seb began to move his finger in and out of him.

 

“More,” Sherlock croaked.

 

Seb was all too willing to comply, earning him another breathy moan from Sherlock. Jim’s other hand ran along the smooth expanse of Sherlock’s flank, quivering now with need.

 

“You can almost feel it, can’t you? You’re almost there, your brain almost silent. Just imagine how it’ll be, Sherlock. Can you? Stuck between the two of us.”

 

“Yes, Christ. Please.”

 

Jim nodded and caught Seb’s eyes. Seb reached and finally pulled the blindfold off.  

 

__________________________________________________

 

Sherlock blinked his eyes open as they adjusted to the light of the room. Until now, he’d been attempting to piece together Moran without the use of his sight. The way his hands were rougher and larger than Jim’s had been when he’d tied on his blindfold, the salt and gun oil scent of his skin, the sensation of thin, dry lips pressing against his own until replaced with the talent of his tongue.

 

Sherlock tried to look over his shoulder as much as possible, catching only a hint of Moran’s frame behind him, before his head swung back of its own accord and hung in between his shoulders. Though he’d wanted nothing better than to see when the blindfold had been on, he shut his eyes at the sensation of Moran’s finger running precisely over the correct bundle of nerves. Still, he forced his eyes open as he felt the barest fingertips tilt his head to look up into Jim’s eyes. He wasn’t sure why exactly he was being regarded so intently, perhaps to ascertain his consent in all of this, but Sherlock nodded as he had at the beginning in the living room. The pad of Jim’s thumb moved to stroke at Sherlock’s jawline, drawing a slow line from the angle of his jaw to the point of his chin before, he raised his eyes away from Sherlock. Presumably, he and Moran came to some sort of agreement over Sherlock’s head, because suddenly he wasn’t being touched at all. Jim dropped his hand from Sherlock’s face and Moran withdrew from him entirely and then they were trading places, Moran standing before him and Jim stroking at one of his thighs.

 

“Come on, then.” Moran said, using a tone that was, if Sherlock’s ears did not deceive him, a touch gentler than he had been. “Your turn. Show us what you can do,” Moran smirked faintly as he took himself into hand and brought himself closer to Sherlock’s lips.

 

Sherlock, for his part, couldn’t comply with Moran without making a show of rolling his eyes up at him. Nevertheless, he did as he was prompted and parted his lips accordingly.

 

“Smart man,” Moran praised. At the same time, Jim’s nails were now scraping against the sensitive flesh of the backs of his thighs, going up to the cheeks of his arse and kneading. As Moran’s cock slipped between his lips, he felt the blunt pressure of another at his entrance, and he groaned around the burning stretch of finally being filled, earning him a filthy curse from Moran.

 

“Mmm, Sherlock,” Jim panted. His hands found their way to Sherlock’s hips, clutching them tight enough to bruise, a match to the love bites Moran had left around his collar earlier. There was some part of him-- a part of himself that Sherlock wasn’t yet prepared to face-- that thrilled at the notion.

 

He felt at once utterly invaded and yet somehow free. Jim and Moran were using him, settling into a rhythm that had him bouncing back against Jim’s thighs before being thrust back forward onto Moran’s thick cock. Moran’s hands threaded into Sherlock’s dark curls pushing his head down enough that he felt the plump head of Moran’s cock nudge at his throat. And still, Sherlock felt at peace. Whatever else, he was relieved of choices. Jim and Moran were in control and that meant that he was allowed to let his mind go offline and enjoy.

 

“Fucking Christ, I knew that mouth would be a sight stretched around me,” Moran grunted.

 

Sherlock hummed enthusiastically and almost involuntarily. Jim said nothing, but instead focused on angling his thrusts, Sherlock hoped for the purpose of locating his prostate.

 

“Like that, do you?” Moran asked, glancing down to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Vain bastard. You’re a sight, Sherlock Holmes. A fucking bloody gorgeous one, at that. Jim’s lost himself, I’m afraid.” Just then, Jim found what Sherlock had been hoping for, and Sherlock groaned in earnest around Moran’s cock as Jim brushed again and again against the sweetest of spots inside him.

 

“Not too lost,” Jim quipped, pulling almost completely out before thrusting back in harshly. The motion made Sherlock scramble for balance for a moment, hands locked in place as they were, as he was pushed further on to Moran’s cock. Sherlock felt miserably empty, then full again, at the new pace Jim had set. At this rate, Jim was stroking against his prostate variably, some thrusts at the correct angle and others not finding what Sherlock assumed was Jim’s target. Sherlock shifted his concentration towards tightening around Jim at the point of maximal penetration, to increase the friction for both Jim and himself.

 

Jim groaned in response, and Sherlock was rewarded with that delicious pressure over his prostate and the humming that subsequently began crawling up his spinal cord. Meanwhile, Moran had taken to guiding Sherlock’s head upwards by tugging on the curls above the nape of his neck, producing a different sort of shiver at the base of Sherlock’s skull.

 

For a few moments, it seemed as though Sherlock would succeed, he would finish overwhelmed in sensations and Jim would, too. But after the thrusting came faster, Jim grunted softly to himself and ceased motion altogether. If his head had been free, he might have turned around to look at Jim in bewilderment, but the rhythm that Moran’s palm was demanding of him did not falter for a moment.

 

Instead, Sherlock felt short nails scratching down the insides of his thighs, forcing him back from his own impending orgasm, and Moran tugged at a handful of his curls one last time but pulled Sherlock completely off of himself. _What? Is that it?_ Sherlock caught himself thinking wildly, thinking briefly that perhaps this was the game. To get themselves off, but to leave him panting and unsatisfied. Sherlock must have been visibly confused, as Moran chuckled at him, evidently catching some idea of what Sherlock was wondering.

 

“Imbecile...” Sherlock found nothing else to spit at him, still half-dazed from how utterly crackling with electricity he’d been seconds before and how absent all of the touches to his skin felt now as Moran moved out of his line of sight.

 

Behind him, he felt the clasps at his right ankle unclicking and the spreader bar between his legs being removed. He really was being let go and all this really was done. Before he could remind himself of what his ultimate goal in all this was, that his end of the bargain had apparently been paid now, he petulantly kicked weakly at Moran’s hands.

 

A sharp crack to his backside cleared any further thought of insulting anyone from his mind, cleared anything at all from his mind really. It had stung, but it was plainly more to call his attention rather than to actually hurt him. It worked. Sherlock tensed his muscles in anticipation of more and raised his head, absolutely focused on what Jim’s, Moran’s, anyone’s next move might be. “Easy…” Moran threatened, impatience with the outburst evident in his tone.

 

“No, no, no.” Jim said, in that gratingly sweet way he reverted to sometimes. “None of that,” he said, in the same tone that one might use to gently redirect a pet. It was unclear to Sherlock whether Jim was addressing him or Moran. Sherlock had little time to contemplate whatever direction Jim was moving in as his other ankle was loosed and an arm curled around his thigh threw him off balance and onto his side and repositioned him onto his back. Faced with Moran again, Sherlock was in equal measure further infuriated and intrigued by the mocking little smirk Moran’s lips had curled into.

 

“Couldn’t you tell?” Sherlock heard Jim say as he felt the bar between his wrists loosely grabbed hold of. “Bash here likes to manhandle his partners. Well,” Jim paused thoughtfully, “ _most_ of his partners.”

 

“Well, I did think some modicum of restraint was in order.”

 

“Restraint? I’d say there certainly was, darling,” Moran replied. He tugged at Sherlock's position, dragging him until his tailbone was at the edge of the bed before wrapping Sherlock’s legs around his waist. With aching slowness, Moran guided himself inside Sherlock.

 

Sherlock hissed as he was penetrated again. “I know, I know,” Jim soothed. “He’s always a bit of a stretch at first.”

 

Jim grasped the bar at Sherlock’s wrists, taking it in the middle and holding it directly over the top of Sherlock’s head, effectively pressing his hands into the mattress while the other began at his throat and moved its way downward. Finally, Jim’s hand found its way to Sherlock’s cock, now leaking copiously. Whereas before, Jim’s hand had been soft and teasing, now it was firm, stroking him deftly from root to tip.

 

“Poor thing,” Jim tsked. “It’s all so much, isn’t it?” Moran thrusted into him at a harsh pace, and Sherlock was torn between pushing up into Jim’s hand or rolling his hips down into Moran’s cock.

 

“I have to admit, he’s got a point,” Jim said, nodding in Moran’s direction. “You do look absolutely fantastic this way.”

 

Sherlock was rather beyond words by now. Moran had managed to find the same angle as Jim had, and each stroke of Jim’s hand finished with a sinful twist that sent sparks flaring behind his flickering eyelids.

 

Moran’s hips were beginning to break rhythm, growing more and more erratic. Jim’s hand paused on Sherlock as he eyed him.

 

“You know the rules, Sebastian,” Jim chided, drawing out the syllables of the name.

 

Moran nodded and paused as if to regain his composure. When he was evidently sure that he was not breaking whatever rules Jim had set out for him, he continued pushing into Sherlock, and he arched his back in response.

 

"So much time wasted, Sherlock. Years, utterly gone. Chasing me, ruining parts of my little web. For what? Hmm?" Jim said softly, still stroking him as he spoke. "What was the point? All that effort to prove how much cleverer you are, when all this time what you've wanted is to find a way to not think at all."

 

Jim slid the bar back against the bed, stretching Sherlock’s arms up higher and rendering him even more immobile than he had been before. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment in an effort to steady himself, but then he felt Jim’s soft lips against his ear.

 

“I’ll tell you, though, darling.” Jim’s voice was low, his accent somehow managing to both trill and growl around the words. “It was worth the wait to see you like this. He could fuck you for days like this if I told him to. He could keep you on edge, just barely there, right out of reach all night if I wanted it. Is that what you want?”

 

Sherlock felt like he was cracking open. The words were filthy, and perhaps some part of him should have been mortally offended and embarrassed to be in this position. Perhaps part of him should feel frightened, but instead all he wanted was for it to end but also manage to keep going forever.

 

“No, I don’t think so, Sherlock. Not this time,” he murmured. “Come on then, show me. Show me. Come for me, Sherlock. Come around him.”

 

Despite his best efforts, in another wicked twist of Jim’s wrist, Sherlock was coming, his eyes welded shut. He thought he heard Jim tell Moran the same instruction. A moment later, the big hands at his hips had tightened almost uncomfortably, and Moran had groaned and gone still.

 

When he opened his eyes again, Jim was studying his fingers intently, now covered in Sherlock’s come. His eyes burned into Sherlock’s as he deliberately licked the release from his pointer finger. The sight was enough to create an aftershock that must have made him clench again around Moran.

 

“Christ,” Moran choked before carefully pulling himself free from Sherlock’s body and slumping on the bed at Sherlock’s hip.

 

Sherlock was floating. Normally, his brain would be racing, searching desperately for the next thing to evaluate. But now, it was still silent. Jim was undoing the clamps at his arms, fingers massaging into the slightly chafed flesh. Unwise as it was, Sherlock was largely unaware for the rest of the evening. He felt himself being shifted and knew dimly that his still sweaty and trembling limbs were being rearranged, until eventually he fell asleep and knew nothing more at all.

 

When he awoke the next morning, Sherlock realized his muscles were sore, but more importantly, that he was alone. Not just alone in bed, but alone in the flat. He wasn’t fool enough to believe that he wouldn’t be caught on some camera if he attempted to take advantage of the situation to go rifling through Jim’s things, so he rolled over as if to get up. On the nightstand to his left, was an unmarked but stuffed envelope evidently meant for him. He reached for it, tore it open carefully and extracted the note left for him. Detailed in the note was the plan, neatly laid out for him, with only Jim’s participation in it all left undescribed. He lay in bed toying with the plan in his mind, trying to poke holes in it, trying to consider better alternatives if possible but eventually had to concede that this was indeed the most logical way of going about it, if indeed, it required him to have blind faith in Jim holding to their agreement.

 

Half sulking that he could find no better alternative and half sulking that he’d apparently been abandoned in the flat, he eventually folded the note back onto the nightstand and resolved to go home. He could not go home, however, without making his petulance known, so he purposefully had a cigarette and then put out it out on the wood of the nightstand, before gathering his clothes, dressing, and leaving the flat.  

           

_______________________________________________

 

The first time that Sherlock felt serious concern that he had been cheated was on the steps of Magnussen’s house.

 

John’s alarmed cries seemed distant in comparison to the whirring of the helicopters above him, and Sherlock had thought for a moment to keep John calm, yelling reassurances about Mary, thinking that in steadying John, he might steady himself, too. She’d been telling the truth all this time if Moran’s records were to be believed; she had little to fear now. Watching the snipers move closer to him, Sherlock could do nothing but freeze with his hands above his head as instructed, a chill climbing up his spine and the faintest tremor rocking his knees. _Jim’s snipers? Government moles who wouldn’t shoot?_ He thought vaguely, wondering if this were the culmination of Jim’s promise or indeed the manifestation of how little Jim meant to keep his word.

 

But someone whose voice was only barely recognizable was shouting something overhead and Sherlock could do nothing else but stand on the steps and watch snipers halt their creep towards him, uncomfortably reminiscent of how he’d been descended upon at the border of Romania.  Later, in one of the bleak cells people sometimes disappeared into, Mycroft’s uncharacteristic, hissing reprimand let Sherlock know that he owed his continued existence to his brother. Jim was not at all responsible, rather he’d been conspicuously absent from the proceedings entirely. With an increasingly removed perspective on the whole situation, Sherlock began to curse himself for how stupidly he’d believed Jim would interfere. A final glimmer of hope remained, perhaps Jim’s role was less to prevent Sherlock being killed and more to prevent his facing the consequences for the assassination of a very public individual. But that idea was quickly dashed away as Mycroft explained the alternate means of penance.

He wouldn’t do it, he’d run as soon as the plane touched down in ‘Eastern Europe.’ No, of course he’d do it. Where would he run to? What was the point of running at all? For one of the first times in his life, then, Sherlock quietly nodded and wondered if this was what people meant when they spoke of ‘resignation.’

 

He accepted then that, whether he lived or died, this tarmac might be the last place he’d ever see John. Mycroft even seemed surprised at how little he protested at what came next.  Sherlock tried to make John laugh, again, in an effort to make the whole thing sit better with himself. They shook hands, he embraced Mary, and he said nothing further to Mycroft before boarded the plane. Removed from anyone who might think less of him for doing so, he vacillated between watching the remnants of his life from the window and then pointedly avoiding looking in their direction. To add insult to injury, he couldn’t help gritting his teeth at his own idiocy in trusting Jim. Even thinking it to himself sounded foolish now that he could see it all. What a perfect way to isolate then kill him,  to ensure Sherlock’s complicity in his own destruction, too neat a coincidence that he should now be sent to where Jim knew he’d been given his scars. Indeed, he had no way of knowing whether Jim’s own men would not be the ones receiving him at the end of this flight.

 

He had no desire to suppress the sharpness in his voice when Mycroft called him, stinging at having been so utterly wrong.

 

“I’ve only been gone four minutes,” he snapped. He couldn’t help the almost-anger, the demand that Mycroft make himself clear, that he provide Sherlock with the certainty that perhaps things had suddenly taken a sharp turn for the better.

 

__________________________________

 

The Jaguar had sliced its way through the distracted throngs at Piccadilly Circus, more difficult today than usual. Everyone in the streets seemed confused at the giant billboards now all revealing the same image. “Did you miss me?” _Almost,_ thought Sherlock _._

 

His phone pinged twice in rapid procession, one from a number already programmed in his phone:

 

**No more Eastern Europe for you, dearest. Dreadful, dreary place. Xx JM**

 

And from another, unsaved number:

           

            **Come again, Holmes. If you’re up to it, that is. SM**

 

“What are you smiling about?” John’s voice asked from beside him.

 

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied.

 

John snorted, “You like all this. Better than Christmas for you.”

 

“You’ve no idea, John.”


End file.
